


The King of All Days

by Aonashe



Series: A Confederation of Dunces Anthology [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: A Confederation of Dunces Anthology, Creepy, Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Salad Fingers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Psychosis, Veterans, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25982779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aonashe/pseuds/Aonashe
Summary: Honestly, can't really describe this one. You'll just have to read it and make up your mind.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: A Confederation of Dunces Anthology [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888168
Kudos: 2





	The King of All Days

_“It is a special day,”_ A lonesome man thought to himself as he rustled in the corner of his shack. He was setting up party decorations and stringing deflated balloons from the ceiling of his home. He hummed a tune as he dug around in a box, looking for more decorations, even though all that was left were a few pebbles and dust specks. The man stood up, craning his head to look behind him, a grin stretched out on his face.

“As it is John’s birthday today,” he rasped as he walked over towards a figure hooked on the wall behind him. “It would be rather polite of you to take a hot bath.”

When he got closer to the figure, it seemed to look like a lump of flesh with black holes in his eyes, which somewhat resembled eyes. The texture of its skin was like risen bread dough. The man raised a hand to touch the wisps of hair that hung off its head. “Nimmy Pickles,” He said in a firm tone. “You’re a bit smelly.”

He let down his hand and the sack of flesh sagged downwards. The man dug around in his pocket and pulled out a sock puppet wearing a tattered top hat. As if he was pretending not ot notice the puppet that clung to his hand, he let out a soft gasp. “John Fox! Aren’t those trousers a bit posh, sunshine?” He said as he stroked the bottom of the puppet.

“And how old are you going to be today?” He brought the puppet up to his ear and waited in silence. After a moment, he let out a whistle. “Wow, they do grow up fast.”

Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door. The man glanced nervously at the sock on his hand. “Who on Earth could that be? It’s far too early for guests.”

He set the puppet down on the side of the decorations box and went to answer the knock. The rickety door opened with a screech, revealing a tall, white pole towering over him. The man stared at it for ar second before his crooked grin turned into a frown. “Who the devil are you?”

Looking upwards, it seemed that the totem ascended even past the cloudy sky. His frown contorted into an expression of nervousness instead.

“L-Let’s see what the hand makes of this,” He said, clearly unnerved as he approached the unwanted guest. The man rested his only hand against the pole, rubbing it as a welcome gesture. Not even a second later he cringed away from it, dusting his hand against his trousers.

“You appear to be free of all information,” He whispered as he turned back towards the door. The man brought his trembling hand up to meet his gaze.

“I would advise you, young lad, not to associate yourself with such an _ignorant, texture-less thing!”_ He spat at the pole.

He took a step as if to go back inside, but stopped suddenly and turned back to face the anomaly, the sleeve where his other arm should be flapping in the wind.

“Are you John’s birthday stick?” Silence.

“No answer, as I expected,” He replied to himself with a mocking tone, slinking back into his shack before slamming the door behind him.

“Come on sludgeworth,” He called to the sack of meat hanging off the hook. “I won’t ask you again!”

He poked at it and it fell off the wall, slumping on the ground with an uncomfortable squish.

“Well someone’s a negative Nancy today,” The man chuckled as he drummed his fingers on the thing’s head. “Hold on, this might get your gears in motion,”

He bent down, facing it and stared deeply into its cold, dark eyeless sockets. A grin stretched from ear-to-ear on his face as he looped his arms over the top of his head, clasping his hands directly under his chin, his flexibility almost like that of a noodle.

After a few moments, the man let go of his head and let his face drop into a frown.

“Oh dear, not a smirk,” He rested his hand on the lump’s shoulder. “Well, what a day you’ve chosen to fall under.”

He let its shoulder go and got up, going into a different room. The only thing inside the room was a shelf with a mirror and toy deer on it. He smiled at the deer and pointed at it. “Werner, you’re in charge until I return from the ghastly trenches.”

***

The forest was dark and foreboding, the trees grim with thorns and decay. A steady wind rustled through the thicket, stirring the fallen leaves on the cracked ground. The man trudged on through it all, sock puppet in hand. Suddenly, the man stopped in his tracks and raised the puppet up to his face.

“Don’t you crumple your face up at me, John Paul Fox!” Silence followed the sternness of his words. “We’ve a duty to fetch the doctor, since our wandering guest has fallen ill.”

Not even a moment later, a box appeared in a dense patch of bushes. The man bent down and started to dig through the contents of the crate. “Now sit tidy and wait for the GP.”

He eventually pulled out another puppet, one with a white coat on. “There he is! Trusty ol’ Dr. Hancock.”

The man took John off and sat on the edge of a mattress that laid next to the crate. He raised the doctor puppet in front of him. “Just here for the ol’ once-over, doc, sure you get plenty of Tommies already.”

The puppet kept reaching for him with its knife-like arms, but he kept pretending to push it away by bringing his hand backwards with the hand inside it, since his other jacket sleeve remained vacant.

“I suppose you’ll just be checking me for nimpers and camel spots, eh?”

Suddenly, the puppet lunged at him and sank its fangs into his cheek, drawing out beads of blood. The man yelped and flung the puppet off his hand. A darkness enveloped the thicket, swallowing the trees and the sky above them. Out of the blackness, a deer materialized out of the blackness. The puppet sank its bite into the deer’s flesh, viciously ripping at the deer’s shoulder with its knives. The deer stared at the man with a pained look, but it didn’t move. It just stood there with its big, sad eyes.

The man could do nothing but watch this atrocity happen. At first he felt pity for the creature, but eventually a knowing smile etched its way onto his face. “I know it hurts, just try and sit still. Whilst the medic eats your blood.”

The only thing that moved from the deer was a tear that slid slowly down its muzzle.

***

He jolted out of the swelling darkness around him, his hand clutching at the mattress he was lying on. His nervous eyes darted around for a moment, trying to remember how he got to the middle of the snarled forest. After a moment his usual cheerful smile returned to him.

“Well switch my knickers, we’re awfully late,” He said to himself. “I must have slept for six Mondays.”

With that, he got off the mattress and made the trek back to his shack. John laid behind on the ground, covered in ivy and dirt. Forgotten.

***

When he got back to his home, he opened the rotted door and was greeted with dozens of deer crowded inside.

“Christ in staples!” He exclaimed. “Werner, I said you could bring _one_ friend.”

He opened up the wardrobe next to the door to put his jacket inside it, but he was greeted with yet another deer smashed inside it. Angrily, he went over to the table next to it and threw open all the drawers. Deer were crammed inside them as well. He stormed throughout the shack and was shown nothing but deer in every single room.

He then went back into the main room where all the decorations were and let out a startled gasp. “Mr. Pickles!” He shrieked and dashed over to where his fleshy body once lay. “W-What’s become of your outer casing? You’re nothing but a hollow structure!” He poked at the skeleton that lay crumpled on the floor.

“The man turned to face the deer behind him, which were confused by the ruckus. Rage bloomed on his face.

“You foul creatures. If I find which one of you consumed Mr. Pickle’s flesh, there’ll be hell to pay!”

He glared at them in silence before he shouted, “Go on! Go, the bloody lot of you. Get out of my house!”

The deer all rushed out the open door. He walked over to the door to watch them leave with a triumphant smirk, but as soon as he stepped out the door it turned into a scowl. The pole was back.

“You again,” He muttered to it. “I bet you’re the ringleader here, aren’t you? You should feel a great shame for what you’ve done, sir.”

Though, as he said that, his rage deflated like a balloon when he saw what was behind the pole. “Ah, I see you’ve invited the whole platoon.”

A table was set up with shadows resembling his figure around it in their own chairs, their heads turning in sync to face him. There was one seat that remained unoccupied.

The man walked towards the table, a softness accompanying him. “Is…Is this remaining seat reserved for me?” No answer. He noticed that every one of them was smiling at him, something that felt foreign to him. He trembled slightly as he sat down in the empty seat.

In the center of the table was a box lightly wrapped and topped with a bow. His face immediately lit up. “For me? Oh, I thought you’d all forgotten.”

He grabbed the box and unwrapped it, beaming with joy. What lay underneath the wrapping was a tattered top hat, which looked like it was made from flesh with the texture of risen bread dough.

“Ahh,” He sighed. “I shall wear it from here to the grave.”

As soon as he put it on, the ground started to tremble. He looked over and it was coming from the pole, as it was descending into the ground. When it finally reached its end, it revealed that on top of it laid another gift.

“Another one? You all spoil me,” He chuckled and ran towards the pole, picking up the box and lifting up the lid once he was there. Inside was a revolver.

The man picked up the weapon. The sight of it struck something unknown within him, tears pooling in the creases of his eyes as he looked at it. He turned to the shadows at the table, each one of them smiling encouragingly at him, unblinking. Fumbling with it in his hands, he walked back over to the table, the revolver dropping down with a “thunk”. Bleary-eyed and speechless, he glanced once more at his guests. Their stares were like vultures descending on him. He slipped the weapon back in his hand, finally managing to stammer: “This truly is the king of all days.”


End file.
